


Deep Enough

by sugarplumfairy



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Retribution Spoilers, Scars, no betas we die like men, post-reveal, there's a missing smut scene here that i might go back and fill in later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 06:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20502488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarplumfairy/pseuds/sugarplumfairy
Summary: Ardi took off her mask, and now Mortum's is on tighter than ever. (post-update scene that will probably be rendered useless when retri updates again)





	Deep Enough

**Author's Note:**

> the title makes it sound like porn but i swear it's not. (yet.)

He said he would contact you, and above all Dr. Mortum is good on his word. You’d been carrying around Ophelia’s phone even as Ardi, desperate for something to bridge the glacial chasm that has opened up between you.

Typically, when trouble brewed in your real life he would be the first person you’d turn to for advice, or at least for a distraction long enough to make you forget about it. But now the lines are hopelessly blurred, and his soothing baritone is not an option.

You picked up right away. Of course you did. You just happened to be in Ophelia, in an empty booth at Joes that would usually be occupied by two. He waited for you to speak first. Of course he did.

“Hello?” You hoped you didn’t sound as desperate as you felt.

“Ophelia,” he said, evenly. Carefully. “I was not sure if I would be speaking to you, or to…”

“To my other half,” you finished for him when he trailed off. “I wasn’t sure if you’d call me.”

“Have I ever broken a promise to you?” he asked, but his voice was lacking the usual familiarity. It was almost an accusation.

“No,” you admitted. “I understand if you’re not ready to talk about… us yet, but perhaps we could start with business?”

“Like we used to?” he asked. Over the phone, it was hard to tell if it was meant to be cynical or hopeful.

“Like we used to.” You figured repetition was a safe answer. “I picked up something interesting at the auction. A machine for regenerating human tissue. I was hoping you could help me assemble it.”

He paused. You could practically see his thinking face, his fingers fidgeting with his glasses. “I will take a look at it. But you must come as yoursel—as… Gardenia.”

You tucked that detail away for later. He still can’t bring himself to think of you as the same person.

Now you’re here, in the elevator down to Mortum’s lab. The moment of fear you usually feel is much longer this time. He could really just kill you right here and take the machine once the gas clears. He has his gun already, what else would he need you for?

You trust in Dr. Mortum’s word. The elevator stops, and the doors open to the lab. It seems bigger than you remember. Is Ophelia really that much taller than you?

Mortum stands facing you, arms crossed. He’s wearing the white lab coat, t-shirt, and cargo pants that you know well. As you approach him you see that his face is the same stony blankness from your first meeting. He must have taken a number again, because his mind is a black void. You’re wearing three layers of clothing. _Masks back on, then._

You set down the crate and busy yourself with opening it to avoid his stare. Once you pry the lid off, however, his scientific curiosity gets the better of him as always, and he leans in to steal a look.

“So, this machine regenerates human tissue?” he asks. “Interesting technology, but what would you plan to do with it?”

You clear your throat. Why is your mouth so dry?

“I told you, earlier. About what I am,” you say. You glance at him through your periphery.

“A cuckoo,” he says, focused on the cylinder in the crate. Interesting. He seems to be deliberately avoiding your gaze as well. “So, what, you want to erase your branding?”

“I want to be human,” you say, since you’ve already bared all your secrets to him and there’s no point in hiding it any longer. The delivery is so honest that he turns to look at you. You can’t stop now that you have his attention. “I want to wear tank tops in the summer and know what a cool breeze feels like and… love someone without being afraid of getting too close.”

You can’t hide your blush after the last of the admissions, but Mortum’s poker face is good. Very good. You wish – oh God, you wish – you could read his thoughts. You know he’s too smart to let that happen.

The silence drags on.

“Let me see them,” he says, finally.

You knew this outcome was a possibility. A probability, even. Your hand is still shaking as you roll the sleeve of your coat up to your elbow. Then the loose, chunky sweater. Then the black skin-tight undershirt.

Mortum sucks in a breath as you feel cold air on your forearm. You can’t look at him.

“Oh no,” he says, quietly. “Ma chérie.”

There’s a moment there where you both stop to register what he just said. Then the moment is gone, because he’s holding your wrist and running his fingers over the circuit lines on your skin. Over the deep, irregular scar where the line breaks, where the pigment’s been carved out. He presses his thumb into the divot.

“You did this to yourself,” he says. It’s not a question, just a statement. He’s a doctor, after all – of course he can read the signs. He looks up at you, over the rim of his glasses, and you realize that he’s waiting for an explanation.

“Well, I tried to remove them like any other tattoo,” you say, and even when you look away you can feel his eyes on you. “And it’s funny, actually. If you don’t go deep enough they just come back. It’s like they planned ahead for escapees.”

You laugh, because you don’t know what else to do. Mortum is not even in the ballpark of being amused.

“More of them. Show me more of them.”

When you realize he’s serious it’s like waking up sober. You roll down your sleeves, shrug off your coat. He takes it immediately and lays it down on his desk. There’s a… desperation there that you’re surprised to see. The memory of him in a plastic hospital chair punches you in the gut. He’d massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers, glasses skewed with the movement. Just like he does now.

It’s good that he’s not looking at you, actually. It makes the next layer easier. But once the sweater’s gone, the cold seeps in through the thin undershirt and you hesitate.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, ma chérie,” he says with a helpful smile. It’s fucking dazzling and you don’t know why, until you realize that you haven’t seen him smile since you sat down across from him in a dingy bar and shattered his whole world.

And you remember why you told him in the first place. Why you trusted him with your dearest secret. Why you would do anything to see that smile again.

The shirt comes off. The lab’s cold, and you start to wrap your arms around yourself but Mortum shakes his head, mouthing “no,” and you open yourself up to his gaze. It’s not as hard as you’d thought it would be to stand here in just your black lace bra, maybe because you’re already used to his eyes on you.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, but you can tell his mind is going a mile a minute from the way he looks at you. You remember the glimpse of his thoughts before the earlier number took full effect, the dizzy speed at which he thinks. He reaches out as if to touch you, stops himself. You watch his eyes trace the lines of ink, stop at the scars – some from battle, some from Heartbreak, some self-inflicted in the time since.

“Merde,” he says, quietly.

“I know. That’s what I say when I look at me too,” you say.

The joke is just instinct, but Mortum shakes his head, lifts his glasses, and… wipes his eyes? He sighs and takes your hand in his, flips your palm upward. You follow his gaze down. He brushes the scar on the inside of your arm again. He opens his mouth to speak no less than three times before he finally does.

“I will help you assemble the machine,” he says. He hesitates before he continues. “I am not a forgiving man. You know this.”

“I do,” you say, and the words come out more choked than you thought they’d be.

He turns your hand over again, examines the lines that run up to your shoulder.

“But I… understand… why you did what you did.”

He pauses long enough that you look up at him. There are… there are tears in his eyes. You hear them when he speaks again.

“I know what it feels like. To not be able to trust anyone,” he says. A tear rolls down his cheek, and he bites his lip hard trying to keep it in. It’s not even a conscious thought, really, to reach up and wipe it away. Just like how it’s automatic to push a stray curl of hair out of his face.

He catches your hand and starts to cry in earnest. It’s still composed, somehow – no gasping sobs or dribbling mucus – quiet, pretty tears. _How the fuck does he do that?_

“And I realized,” he says, and he swallows hard, “after we talked, that when you told me this… you were trusting me a great deal.”

You start to speak, but he holds up a hand to stop you. He takes a moment to collect himself again.

“It became clear to me that this was your final barrier. Was it not, Gardenia? Your final mask?”

“Yes,” you say. Your voice is shaky.

“Then I suppose I must… thank you. For trusting me,” he says. “It will take me some time to get used to this, but I want… I want to try.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. It’s not a debonair gesture, just an attempt to revive some of the familiarity that used to be there.

“Ardi,” you say.

“Pardon?”

“Call me Ardi. Please.”

He studies your face, his glasses still a little crooked, his eyes still a little puffy. Then that wonderful, wonderful smile shows itself again. “Ardi.”

“Can I kiss you?” You don’t know why you ask. It’s just something you want to do as you watch his lips, remember how they felt against Ophelia’s… no, _yours._

He doesn’t respond, just cups the side of your face and slides a hand behind you to pull you closer as he leans down and… _touches_ his lips to yours. There’s a moment where you both realize that you’re half-naked and that his hand is on bare skin, but the moment passes and you’re not sure who starts it but the kiss becomes _hungry._ Your hands find their way under his lab coat, touch the lean and warm figure beneath.

This outcome was definitely not a probability. Only barely a possibility, and one you didn’t let yourself consider for too long. For a second you think that this might be just one of your dreams, one of your countless fantasies and this one ran away from you, but then he picks you up and _oh,_ this is real, and so is the pressure digging into your thigh.

And he really is carrying you over to the bedroom…

* * *

**Hours Later.**

You feel a new awareness on the edges of your telepathic range. It’s fuzzy, slowly coming into focus.

You’ve been drawing patterns along the scars on Mortum’s chest with your finger. You poke him to get his attention.

“The number’s wearing off. You should probably take another one.”

“No need.” His fingers stroke your hair, work through the tangled ends with a gentle and precise touch.

His thoughts become sharper as the last of the pill’s effects fade. It’s odd. You don’t feel like a voyeur this time, prying through his secrets. He welcomes you, his mind a warm presence that wraps around yours. Like he’s doing now, skin on skin. Breath on breath.

The general bustle in his brain is quiet in the background, but still there. _Jesus, he really does think that fast all the time._

Above all, there’s a train of thought that’s crystal clear. Like it’s waiting for you to hop on. He kisses you on the forehead and the train starts to move.

_I love you. I know this was hard for you, and I didn’t make it any easier, and for that I am sorry. If you want them gone, I will help you. But I want you to know, they don’t make you any less real._

You sigh and allow yourself to melt further into him. You pluck a thought out from your own mind, plant it in his like a flower.

_I love you too._


End file.
